


it's a bird, it's a plane, it's a one night stand, if only

by S_Hylor



Series: Bingo Round 1 2018 [8]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Police, Bottom Steve Rogers, Cheating, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, One Night Stands, Steve Rogers Is Not Okay, Top Tony Stark, Undercover Missions, background Brock Rumlow/Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 16:33:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15198869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Hylor/pseuds/S_Hylor
Summary: “Now that’s the face of a man who looks like he needs a drink.”It takes him a while to realise that someone is talking to him, and that it’s not the bartender. Picking his head up he turns to look towards the voice. There’s a man there, standing a few feet away from him, also leaning against the bar, but casually, like he’s comfortable there, not like it’s the only thing holding him up.





	it's a bird, it's a plane, it's a one night stand, if only

**Author's Note:**

> For my bingo square "one night stand".
> 
> Thank you to Dryce from the Put On The Suit Discord channel for the beta work.

With the heavy weight of a pistol in his hand, standing beside Rumlow as they shadow Pierce, Steve often wonders what’s going to become of the good man he used to be. In the darker moments, when Rumlow holds the syringe, breath hot against his neck as he tells him he needs to prove his loyalty, so no one can question his motives, Steve wonders if he was ever a good man at all.

He’s coming down, cold sweat on his skin and an ache in his very bones that needs and needs, when he has to check in. He’s glad it’s over the phone, so Sam and Peggy can’t see the way he can’t stand still, or the manic look in his eyes.

“You’re getting in too deep.” Peggy worry is almost physically tangible over the phone, no easier to ignore than in person.

“That’s all part of the job.” Steve replies, tapping his fingers against his leg and hating the withdrawal pain that sparks in his head. He hates when he can’t pretend, when Rumlow insists on guiding his hands, so he can’t just let the poison dribble out against his skin and not invade his system.

“We have enough, we could pull you out and still bring down Pierce’s empire.” Peggy continues, but she doesn’t sound as confident in that fact as Steve thinks she’d like to.

“No. I’m okay. We’ll see this out. We’re not there yet. Not quite. I owe it to Bucky.”

“Steve,” Peggy sounds pained.

“Look, Pegs, I’ve got to go. Rumlow’ll be wondering where I got to.” He hangs up before Peggy can respond, but despite himself, he doesn’t head back to Rumlow’s apartment. The guilt for lying to Peggy doesn’t outweigh the need to get away for a little while longer.

There’s a bar, just a little further down the street from the convenience store he was supposed to be buying smokes from. He doesn’t feel like a drink, but a part of him just wants to submerge himself in a crowd of people, none of who know him, and just ride out the last of the down.

It’s warm inside, too many bodies packed into too tight a space, it makes him sweat, skin itching. Scratching at his forearm he weaves his way between tables to the bar, leans against it and tries not to rattle out of his skin. He should have stayed outside, smoked a couple of cigarettes, tried to calm himself down some more. He should have gone back to the apartment, back to Rumlow, and done his job. He’s just too tired for that now. Too tired to deal with Rumlow, to do the job. Maybe Peggy was right, maybe he is in too deep, maybe he does need to get pulled out. Except he can’t. He needs to see this through. For Bucky. 

“Now that’s the face of a man who looks like he needs a drink.” 

It takes him a while to realise that someone is talking to him, and that it’s not the bartender. Picking his head up he turns to look towards the voice. There’s a man there, standing a few feet away from him, also leaning against the bar, but casually, like he’s comfortable there, not like it’s the only thing holding him up. 

Licking the sweat off his top lip, he means to shake his head, because he really doesn’t want a drink, he just wants to feel normal again for a while. He doesn’t shake his head though, he just ends up shrugging. The man gives him a faint smile, looking weary around the edges, but it doesn’t detract from how attractive he is. Steve thinks he’d have to be dead not to notice that, rather than just feeling like death warmed up. He looks like he’s about the same height as Steve, though it is hard to gauge while they’re both leaning against the bar, older, but he wears his age well, someone who at least now tries to take care of himself. Which is more than he can say for himself, Steve thinks bitterly, feeling sweat dampen the hair on the back of his neck, itching beneath the collar of his shirt. 

There’s something about the way the man is looking at him that he can’t quite work out, because he knows that he looks every bit the basket case that he’s meant to be. There’s track marks on the inside of his arms, bruises around his elbows and wrists, more under his shirt that he knows he can’t explain away politely. Surely the man can see the way he’s sweating, can see it in his eyes that he’s crashing. 

“What’ll you have big guy?” The man asks, signalling the bartender over, frowning slightly when he only gets another shrug in response. The bartender approaches, leaning over the bar so he can hear over the noise of too many people talking at once. Turing to the bartender the man doesn’t seem to take the lack of response as a negative at all. “Can I get a scotch, a dark ale and a raspberry lemonade.” 

The bartender gives him an odd look, that mirrors the look Steve gives him, but the man ignores them both, handing money over and accepting the drinks in return when the arrive. Shifting closer, he sets the dark ale and an overly pink looking drink down in front on Steve. 

Indicating to the pink drink, the man flashes him a sympathetic smile. “Get that in you, the sugar will help, trust me.” 

He doesn’t argue, just pushes himself more upright and sculls the drink, because he wants anything to feel better than it does already. He just wants to feel normal again. The drink is sweet, fizzy, sticks to his tongue with how sugary it is, but it does make him feel a little better, and little more like he can handle the dark ale. He picks it up, salutes the man with it. “Thanks.” 

The man smiles at him, holds his hand out. “Name’s Tony.” 

He hesitates, only for a second, disguises it by having to set the glass down, then shakes the man’s hand and wishes he could use his real name, but they’re too close to Pierce’s territory that he can’t risk it. “Grant. Nice to meet you.” 

There’s something easy about Tony’s company, unassuming, he doesn’t seem to expect anything of Steve, doesn’t even expect him to partake in conversation. That doesn’t stop Tony from talking though, he seems content to chatter way, drawing diagrams and scribbling equations on napkins and the backs of cardboard coasters. he doesn’t understand half the things that Tony is saying, but he likes the way his voice sounds, the way his eyes sparkle with enthusiasm, the little quirks of his lips that are almost smiles. He lets it all wash over him, nodding along, one elbow braced against the bar, cheek propped against his hand, feeling warm, but no longer in a way that makes him sweat. He feels better, calmer, and he doesn’t think it’s just that the drugs have nearly worked their way out of his system; Tony is the nicest, most sincere person he’s been around for a long time. 

It’s that, he thinks, and the way that Tony keeps looking at him, warm and wanting, the occasional bump of Tony’s knee against his leg, that makes him take Tony up on his offer to go somewhere more private. He knows he shouldn’t, knows he should go back to Rumlow, and back to the job, but he’s just so tired. One night, he tells himself, one night to feel normal again, and then he’ll go back. 

They end up back at Tony’s place, several blocks away from the bar, not far, but definitely in the right direction, moving into one of the better districts. It’s just luxurious enough that it feels foreign to Steve; it’s a far cry from the dingy apartment he shares with Rumlow, the drugs stacked in the corners, guns under the bed. Tony’s apartment is filled with half assembled robotics, blueprints and designs stuck to the walls. When he sees Steve lingering, looking over the things he’s been working on, he smiles at him, pressing into his space and wrapping a hand around his wrist. 

“What are you thinking, gorgeous?” Tony asks, drumming his fingertips against the inside of Steve’s wrist, reaching up with his other hand and brushing his fingers over the close cropped hair at his temple. 

He scoffs, because he saw his reflection at the bar, he knows he’s a mess right now, that he’s as far from gorgeous as possible. Except he wants the believe it, wants to believe that it’s what Tony sees when he looks at him, that he really believes it. It’s so different from how he usually gets talked to. He has to swallow all those thoughts down, distract himself by gesturing at the engineering he was looking at. “Just thinking you must be pretty bright, t’make all this stuff.” 

Tony beams at him, stroking his fingers through his hair, soft, gentle, tactile like no one else he’s ever met. “If you think this is good, you should see the stuff I’ve got back in Malibu.” 

“Maybe I should.” He murmurs in response, letting himself, for the moment, get caught up in the fantasy, the idea of running away to the other side of the country where surely Rumlow and Pierce can’t find him. He deludes himself for a moment, but a moment is all it takes to let Tony guide him into a kiss. Soft and sweet, like everything else Tony does, he tastes like scotch and salt from the peanuts at the bar, something sweet underneath that reminds him of blueberries. 

It’s easy to follow Tony’s lead, to kiss him in response, to linger like oxygen isn’t a necessity. To let himself be guided into the bedroom, hands on his hips, that despite putting pressure on the bruises that Rumlow left there last time, make him start to get hard. He wants and wants, and hates himself for being human enough to give into it. He should have never gone to the bar. He should never have followed Tony back to his apartment. Should have gone straight back to Rumlow’s place. Back to the job. 

He’s just so tired. 

Tony draws back, eyes fluttering open, looking a little dazed. Looking at him like he’s something special. Running his fingers against the close cropped hair, tracing his little finger against the shell of his ear, Tony smiles at him. “What would you like to do, gorgeous?” 

What he really wants is to go back ten years, to when he was just finishing school, and tell himself and Bucky not to do anything stupid with their lives, to be sensible and stay safe. To never apply to the Police Academy. Then maybe Bucky would still be alive and he wouldn’t be in so deep he’s not sure if he’ll ever be able to surface again. He’s drowning, and instead of reaching for the hands offering to save him, he keeps swimming deeper. 

Except he can’t do any of those things, be he asks for the other thing that he wants. To be able to feel for a little while. “Do you top?” 

Tony blinks at him once, then smiles wide, a touch predatory. “Most definitely.” 

Swallowing the thick feeling of dread trying to claw up his throat, past the relief he tells himself he feels. Because if Tony had expected him to top he knows he’d only disappoint, wouldn’t be able to stay hard long enough, wouldn’t be able to put the right effort in. “Wanna top me?”

Tony’s smile turns a little more predatory, then too bright to be anything else but gleeful. “Didn’t expect you to want that, gorgeous, you are full of surprises. How do you like it?”

All he can do is shrug in response and remind himself that he used to enjoy it, that one day he will again. That it doesn’t just have to be about punishing himself. “Rough.” 

Even he can hear his voice crack a little on the word. 

Tony’s smile falters a little. “Not really into anything extreme, but I guess I can see what I can do.” 

He doesn’t sound overly convinced, and if Steve was a better person, maybe he’d walk out then, but the idea of being with someone whose sole goal isn’t to hurt him and get off makes him linger. He gives a tight nod, turning his head to look at the bed, the stylish black and white cover on it, enough pillows that they almost half fill the space. He bets there aren’t any guns stashed beneath it, the idea makes him want to laugh, but he doesn’t have the energy. Instead he just starts undoing his belt, the fly of his jeans, pushing them down his thighs, thankful at least that he’d taken his boots off at the door and didn’t have to go through the awkward process of taking them off now. “Whatever you wanna do.” 

“Fuck.” Tony breathes the word out, and he really doubts it’s because he’s impressed with his thigh muscles. 

When he looks back, he notices Tony staring at his legs, the bruises that litter his thighs, the thick scars over his right knee from the multiple surgeries he’d had as a teenager for a shattered kneecap. He ignores the expression on Tony’s face the best he can, shrugging out of his hoodie, but hesitating at his Henley, thinking it’d be better to leave it on, to cover the bruises and the track marks in his arms. 

“Got a problem?” He spits the words out, knows he sounds defensive, but he had really wanted Tony to just make him forget everything for a little while. “Said I liked it rough.” 

Tony’s throat bobs when he swallows, eyes a little wide when he pulls his gaze back up to look him in the eye. “I’m sorry, gorgeous, but I’m really not into that. I’m afraid I might just disappoint you.” 

He shrugs again, tugging his pants off over his feet, taking his socks with them, knowing that he was just given a chance to walk away if he wanted to. “Just do your worse.” 

Tony steps closer, back into his space, hands settling on Steve’s hips again, brushing against the fabric of his boxer briefs. He leans in, up the fraction of an inch it takes to bring his mouth back against Steve’s. “My best, sweetheart. I’ll do my best.” 

He wants to protest, because he doesn’t think he deserves anyone’s best, but he’s selfish, and he knows he’ll take whatever Tony offers for the night. He’ll take his kisses, his gentle touches, the way he guides him back down onto the bed, leaving him there with a kiss pressed to his right knee before he steps back to start stripping out of his own clothes. 

Tony is a masterpiece, all corded muscle and tanned skin. There’s nothing excessive about his musculature, it looks natural, built up by someone with a lifestyle of working with their hands and not afraid of heavy lifting. He notices the way that Tony hesitates slightly before unbuttoning his shirt, and can see the faint scar over his breastbone, and the hard ridge of a shape beneath his skin. Tony catches him staring and taps his fingers against it self consciously. 

“Pacemaker. I was born with a bad heart, but it's nothing to worry about now.” He tells Steve, eyes skating away from a moment, gaze flitting around the room. 

It makes him feel ashamed that he won’t take his own shirt off, but there’s the world of difference between being born with a bad heart, something that isn’t Tony’s fault, and looking like a druggie, which is entirely all his own fault. So he leaves the shirt on, opting instead for taking off his underwear, which seems to catch Tony’s attention enough to take his mind off being self conscious, crawling up onto the bed next to Steve, covering his body with his, pressing kisses to the edge of his jaw and against the column of his neck. 

It’s easy to go with it after that, to let Tony move his legs the way he wants to, to keep his eyes closed and just respond to the feeling of Tony’s weight pressing him down against the bed, the drag of his erection against his hip, against his. He wants to roll over, to bury his face against one of the many pillows, so he can hide all his expressions, but at the same time, he doesn’t want Tony to stop kissing him like he really matters. 

When Tony moves away from him, rolling over to reach of the bedside table, he takes the chance to settle on his front, pulling a pillow under his chest, pressing his face into it. The flowery scent of washing detergent and the same earthy scent he caught on Tony’s hair before engulf him, mixing together pleasantly and he just wants to bury his face in the pillow and keep breathing the scent in forever. 

He feels the bed shift as Tony rolls back towards him, feels him press a kiss to the back of his head, the way one hands settles on his hip, pressing down a little too hard as Tony shifts up onto his knees, straddling one leg. He can feel the drag of Tony’s erection on the back of his thigh, high enough up that the head catches against the swell of his arse every time Tony shifts slightly. Tony traces the palm of his hand over the back of his other thigh, up over his arse, dragging his thumb down the crease from the small of his back that leads down. 

“You really are gorgeous, you know that.” Tony whispers, letting silence follow the statement for a moment before there is the snick of a plastic cap opening. 

He wants to protest, wants to tell Tony to stop calling him that, but at the same time he wants him to keep saying, to keep telling him that until he can believe it, because he thinks Tony actually means it. Believes it when he says it, because Tony doesn’t strike him as the sort of person who lies about things like that. Instead he doesn’t say anything, just shifts his free leg a little further out, hoping that he can distract Tony into getting on with it before he runs out of energy to keep up his façade. 

It seems to work, because the next moment he feels Tony’s fingers, slick and warm, rubbing gently over his hole, soft, slow movements that he’s not sure if they’re designed to work him loose or drive him insane. He can hear Tony humming softly under his breath, soothing sounds that he has no doubt are for his benefit, that match the rhythm that his fingers have set making small circles, the pressure increasing ever so slightly over time. By the time he feels one of Tony’s fingers push into him, he feels impossibly hot, loose and almost sloppy. He hears the broken sound that slips out of his throat, somewhere between a moan and a sob, and somehow this feels worse than when Rumlow opens him up roughly, without any real care at all. 

Tony makes a soothing sound behind him, the hand working him open going still, while his other strokes soft lines down his thigh. “You alright, sweetheart?” 

He nods, turns his head enough to one side that he can feel cool air against his face. “Just get on with it.” 

“You’re the impatient sort, are you? All needy and greedy?” There’s a smirk in Tony’s voice, cocky, but he does start moving again, finger pressing in, drawing back, tugging gently at the ring of muscle at his opening. 

The hand on his thigh disappears, he feels the cool, slick addition of more lube, feels Tony’s finger work back, almost all the way out of him, then the thicker press of two sliding back inside him. He buries his face back in the pillow, bites at the inside of his cheek to try and stop the sounds that want to leak out of him; he doesn’t want to prove Tony right, that he’s needy. He thought he wanted to feel something for a little while, but now he thinks he’s feeling too much. Knows he should have just gone back to Rumlow, let him fuck him roughly, push more bruises into his skin, press down on the ones already there, leave him aching and used afterwards. Instead he’s here with Tony, and the care Tony is taking hurts more than anything Rumlow could deal him. 

By the time Tony’s worked him loose enough for three fingers, he feels like he’s moments away from crying, can feel the burn in the back of his throat, the sting in his eyes and it’s all he can do to keep breathing through it. He’s starting to question how he’s going to survive the night, how he’s going to be able to pick himself up off the bed and go back to his life, the job, at the end of this. He’s starting to wish that he never took Tony up on his offer to go home with him. 

“How you feeling, gorgeous?” Tony whispers, leaning down to press a kiss to the back of his neck. “Ready for the main event?” 

He growls into the pillow, jerks his hips back, catching Tony off guard and pushing his fingers deeper roughly. “Was ready ages ago.” 

Tony lets out a breathy sort of laugh, extracting his fingers and shifting his weight off of Steve’s thigh, settling onto the bed next to him. “You really are the impatient type, aren’t you? So, any latex allergies?” 

Shaking his head he goes to settle more comfortably onto his stomach, when he feels Tony’s hand curl around his hip, guiding him over onto his right side. 

“Just let me,” Tony whispers, shifting against his back, all warm and solid and present. “Like this, if it’s okay?” 

“I guess.” Is all he manages to utter, not entirely sure what he’s agreeing to.

Tony settles closer to him, sliding one arm under his side, settling his hand against Steve’s chest, the other shifting his left leg so it’s raised, pulling his knee up. He tries to hold the position, presses his face against the pillow and tries to remember to breathe as he feels Tony’s cock pushing inside him. It’s slow, achingly slow, he wants to swear, to growl at Tony to hurry up, but he feels his throat locking up and knows if he tries all that will come out of him is a sob. 

It’s just a slick, slow, endless push, punctuated by Tony’s swallow breathing hot against his shoulder, the scrape of facial hair against his skin above his collar. The hand against his chest, the other settled on his hip, all he can feel is Tony, it’s all consuming, makes his head spin, makes him feel things that even the drugs don’t. 

For a moment he can’t breathe. He can feel Tony still there, but it’s more distant, removed, and all he can think about is the drugs, needle in his skin, Rumlow holding it steady and telling him to prove his worth. To prove his loyalty. It’s a joke; one huge, sadistic joke. He doesn’t know what loyalty even is anymore, proof in the fact that he’s getting fucked by some random stranger who he meet in a bar. 

The biggest joke of all is that this, Tony, feels more real than anything else. 

Every slow, slick push of Tony’s cock into his, the way he breathes against the back of his neck, lips tracing bubble like patterns against his skin. He can feel Tony’s hand on his chest, the small movements his fingers make that grate the fabric of his shirt against his nipples. Letting go of the pillow he moves his hand to cover Tony’s holding it still against his chest, slotting their fingers together. Anchoring himself to the present moment, trying to push everything else out of his mind. 

Tony kisses the back of his neck, scraping facial hair against his skin. “You okay, sweetheart?” 

He thinks he might be the furthest from okay that he’s ever been, but he can’t say that, barely trusts himself to speak at all, so he just nods his head roughly, humming what he hopes is affirmation in the back of his throat. 

Kissing him again, Tony rubs his hand up and down the length of his thigh, gently skimming over the bruises there, fingertips tracing the line of his hip bone, following the line of muscle in. He bites back a groan when Tony’s hand closes around his cock, the first firm stroke making his head spin. 

He feels Tony smile against his skin, kiss him again, rock into him in counterpoint to the movements of his hand, it makes him want to move between the two sensations. He rolls his hips, hears Tony’s breath catch and feels the groan that rumbles in his chest. It sparks warmth inside him, so he does it again, feels Tony’s hand tighten around him in response, feels his hips rock forward harder to meet his movement. Tony’s forehead presses against the base of his neck, hard against the bone beneath his skin, breath hot through the fabric of his shirt. 

“Fuck, gorgeous.” Tony pants, kicking his hips forward quicker, the pace increasing. “You feel amazing. So sweet, so perfect. I’d keep you like this for hours if you’d let me.” 

All he can do it grumble in response, trying to hold back the moan that wants to work free. Everything is starting to feel too warm, but not oppressively so. He feels safe, even though he knows he shouldn’t, held against Tony, getting fucked with such care he’s not even sure he can call it fucking. It wasn’t meant to be like this, he’d expected fast and rough and he could go home feeling the pain like shame. Instead he’s got Tony, who is too gentle, too caring, and he’s not sure how he’s going to be able to just walk away from that afterwards. His eyes sting, throat growing so tight it’s hard to breathe, to swallow, impossible to respond in any way. Pressing his face against the pillow he tries to breathe past the tight painful feeling in his chest that he can only pretend is asthma even though he knows it isn’t. 

“I know I said hours, but I think that was wishful thinking on my part, gorgeous.” Tony pants, breaking off into a groan as he thrusts a little harder, all but pulling Steve back onto his cock by the hand stroking him. “I’m getting close, gorgeous, are you?” 

He can feel his orgasm building, low and hot in his stomach, beneath the pain and guilt and shame, body reacting despite the way he feels. “Yeah.” 

He manages to get the word out, sounding strained and broken, but he hopes Tony will write it off as arousal. 

There’s a huff of laughter behind him. “Oh, you are still awake, was worried I’d put you to sleep.”

Before he can think of some sort of witty comeback Tony’s arm tightens around his chest, his hips rocking forward harder, pushing deeper into him and staying there. He can feel Tony pulse and twitch inside him, feel him panting against his back, his hand working him faster until his feels his own orgasm burn through him, knocking the air out of his lungs. 

His head spins until he comes down, until he can breathe again, and open his eyes. There’s streaks of his come stained white over the black part of the pattern on the bedspread and distantly he wonders why they never pulled the cover back. Tony’s hand is still wrapped around his cock, grip looser than before, no longer moving, just holding like he hasn’t thought to let go yet. He can still feel Tony inside him, not quite as hard as before. 

Sliding his hand away from Tony’s against his chest he shifts on the bed a bit, knowing that he has to leave before he gets too tired to move. Before he gets too comfortable. Before Tony has a chance to ask him to stay. He doesn’t count on it, but he thinks that Tony might be the kind of person who’d ask him to stay, for breakfast and a repeat in the morning, and he can’t risk that. 

Tony grumbles when he moves, tries to hold onto him. “Give me a second, gorgeous and I’ll get up a get a cloth to clean up.” 

He doesn’t feel like he has a second though, the room is starting to feel like a trap, he feels hemmed in, caught, like the black and white pattern on the bedspread will sear into his skin if he stays there any longer and Rumlow will be able to see it clearly on him and know what he’s done. 

“I’ve got to go.” He spits the words out, knocking Tony’s hands away from him and pulling away. He feels Tony pull out of him, grits his teeth against the weirdness of it, the way he feels too open and loose without it hurting. Tony scrabbles a hand between them to hold onto the condom, which belatedly he realises he’d forgotten about. 

“Fuck.” Tony groans, the bed jostling slightly as he rolls onto his back. “Grant? You alright?” 

Shaking his head, Steve can’t look at him, the sound of his cover name driving home the feeling of shame. He’s not sure if it because he let Tony fuck him when he is meant to be with Rumlow, or the fact that he lied to Tony to get him to do it that is making him feel worse. Rolling over he pushes himself to the end of the bed, dropping his feet to the floor and ignoring the way his knees ache and his muscle shake when he stands up. He can feel Tony watching him as he looks for his clothes. By the time he’s pulling his jeans up, he can hear Tony moving around the room as well. 

He’s got one sock on, the other in his hand, balancing on one foot when Tony grabs his arm, fingers curling into the crook of his elbow, making him hiss when his touch presses against the track marks in his skin. 

The hand jerks away again, coming back to rest gently on his shoulder. When he straightens up, Tony’s standing there in only his underwear, looking at him in concern. 

“Grant, what’s wrong?” He asks tentatively, brown eyes holding more concern and emotion than a one night stand should warrant. 

“I’ve got to go.” The words taste sour in his mouth, he turns away from Tony to pull his other sock on. When he straightens up again he flaps one hand in the vague direction of the bed. “Thanks for, you know. Sorry about the mess.” 

Tony frowns slightly, jaw clenching, but he doesn’t break eye contact, doesn’t move away. “You can stay for a little while, if you want. I’m not just going to kick you out, despite what you may have heard.” 

He’s not sure what he’s supposed to have heard; it’s besides the point anyway. “I can’t. I’ve got to go.” 

Tony’s face falls, hurt flashing in his eyes. He takes a step back, jaw tense, and when he speaks again his face and voice are both emotionless. “Sure. Okay. Guess it was nice to meet you and all.”

It shouldn’t hurt so much, having to walk away, logically he knows that. He also knows all the guilt he feels is now for making Tony look and sound like he does. By the time he’s got his boots on and the front door has closed behind him, his chest aches so badly he can barely breathe. 

A minute is all he allows to pull himself together, to push down the longing, the want to turn around, knock on the door, apologise and ask to stay. He knows he can’t do it. He forces himself to walk away, 

After all, he has a job to do. 


End file.
